


Bold Defiance

by catherinekenc



Category: Gypsy (US TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2018-12-07 19:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherinekenc/pseuds/catherinekenc
Summary: "It's been nearly a month and she can't help the visions. Her mind, constantly conjuring the images once brought on by Sam's words in her controlled sessions. She tortures herself with questions of reality versus fantasy. "Post season one. JeanXSidney





	1. Chapter 1

Plump lips part, gasping for breath as her eyes become wild fire. Willing him to go deeper, help her climb higher. She hears, clearly, the strangled moans and air through gritted teeth. The sensation is so strong she's certain that she's living the moment. She's certain she's watching Sid be fucked by a man. A strange man- Suddenly Jean feels a pain in her palm and forces herself to open her eyes. She finds a half crescent, blood rising to the surface where she's dug her indigo nails into her skin. Her eyes focus on the notes in front of her as she tries to shake the memory of Chance by Chanel.

It's been nearly a month and she can't help the visions. Her mind, constantly conjuring the images once brought on by Sam's words in her controlled sessions. She tortures herself with questions of reality versus fantasy. Would Sid be out, sucking cock at the bar down the street to feel as if she evened the score? Or was that just talk? If it wasn't- she'd have to blow her way through half of Brooklyn to even the score set by Jean. 

The pit in her stomach hasn't left for weeks. She's lost weight she couldn't stand to lose before and her eyes look dull. She looks in the mirror and wonders how it would feel to be so completely enveloped in the sun again. But it’s not just Sid, it’s everything. It’s the contempt that fills their home, the martyred looks and the cold, barely there touches. It’s the way that Dolly looks at her with what she imagines is a 9 year olds version of sympathy, sensing that her mother’s world is off kilter.

Michael knows a version of the truth, one with a little less detail, far less emotion. He is, as he always has been, willing to work on it. Jean is in no position to argue or tempt her fate, not in this moment. She’s deleted Sid’s number, steered clear of The Rabbit Hole. She’s doing things right, if only for her daughter. And a part of her knows it’s for Michael too, knowing that if he isn’t there with his order and his normalcy, she may fall directly into sheer madness. But that doesn’t appease the thoughts. It doesn’t help her while she chokes on the taste of coffee or falls to pieces at the sight of a white and gold tank top. 

The number is deleted but not blocked. Michael is too technology illiterate to ask her to do it and for this reason, she knows, Sid has not reached out. There’s been no text messages, no late night phone calls. She would’ve been happy with being quickly cursed out, would have been ecstatic with a long winded explanation of what she’d done wrong and why they could never speak again. But this? This radio silence? A mental anguish all its own. If there’s one thing Jean knows she can’t stand, its obliviousness, not having the answers to “What are you thinking?” “How are you feeling?” 

She taps her heel to a beat only in her head and hovers her hand over her address book. She’d bought it when Dolly started school, a way to keep track of the soccer moms and PTA heads. She quickly became reliant on it, patients information, numbers for restaurants they liked to make reservations at. And she knows, somewhere in the back, a quick scribble will read “S.” with a number she never thought to memorize. She’d been good, God had she been good. She opted for tears in the shower when she could’ve taken the train right to her. She’d stood late nights, alone in a dark house while Michael worked late, and never once messaged her on the Facebook account she’d found through the one she’d claimed to never have- a much different name on the profile than Sid had hunted for.  
She leafs through the pages and finds a finger tracing the familiar letter. She knows that any excuse she finds to type the number into her phone will be a weak one. She’s stronger than this. She’s better than this. Her family deserves more from her. The thoughts fill her mind but still, she finds herself tapping out numbers into a screen. “Just a simple message,” she thinks, “closure.” 

Something hot and fiery rises in her chest, her pulse quickens. For a moment she wonders if it’s nerves? But this, she knows, is a thrill. She feels it in her spine and between her legs as she holds her thumbs over the keyboard.

“I thought you may kill me. That night, in your apartment, when you danced for me- I thought I would just die. Now I know that’s what it felt like to live for the first time. These last few weeks, this is the death. I need to explain, please.”

There is barely a moment’s hesitation before she hits “send,” bold and defiant. She rereads the words once and wonders, who would believe these words, are for closure?

TBC...


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: I’m sorry that it took me about 900 years to write this and I’m sure at this point the interest is dead but I actually am a writer as my day job and have personal projects so when I decide to do fanfic, on a whim, it’s rare and then I forget to follow up so, my apologies! Enjoy! 

Moments pass and the feelings fade, replaced by guilt. She carries it with her for the day, regret mixed with absolute dread. She’d forgotten to consider that she could be blocked from Sid’s phone, she could be out of her mind, away from her thoughts. She could just be that insane story with no real conclusion other than “and then I walked into the auditorium and she was there, making a fucking speech to her kid’s school. How fucked up is that?” that Sid tells in the corner of dark bars for the rest of her life. She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit she expected an instant reply. She doesn’t get one. 

It’s anguish. It’s all that she felt weeks ago when she was in the midst of an affair, only heightened because this time, it’s all on the table. This time, the woman she was sleeping with knows her name, her husband’s name, her child’s school. In a moment of weakness she’d been absolutely stupid, foolish. Downright reckless. Her eyes dart to her phone at every message, every reminder. Even when the phone isn’t lighting up, she thinks she sees it. She’s afraid to leave it on the nightstand or the table where Michael can see it, as if it’s been a part of a crime and he’ll instantly recognize the evidence. She considers, for a moment, throwing it onto the subway tracks and getting a new one with a new number.

But then she’s there. It’s a dark night, cold and lonely. Dolly is asleep and Michael is working late. Jean is reclined on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, distracted by a show playing over the television. For the first time in a week she feels almost settled, nearly calm, preoccupied by something that isn’t her phone and thoughts of a younger woman. She sees it on the table and almost ignores it. It’s been 6 nights and she’s actually convinced herself that Sid has moved on, will likely never even see her message. But she’s there.

Jean picks up the phone and there it is, just a number. No name. It could even be someone else, a message sent to her by mistake but she knows it isn’t. She’s peeked at the scribble in the back of her address book a few too many times and knows the pattern of numbers displayed is at least familiar. As she gently pushes her thumb in to unlock the phone, all the former feelings, apprehension, fear… guilt, they fall away. Instead she feels exactly what had sat in the pit of her stomach, motivating her to send the message in the first place. She feels like Diane. Her finger hesitates over the green icon with the small red notification sitting atop it. She takes a breath and hits it. The first thing she notices is that it’s sparse. Just a few words.

“And why should I let you, Jean?” 

She almost smiles. It’s something. She can deal with something. She puts the phone in her lap to think over her response and is drawn into the furniture that sits around her. Her reality. The walls, the floor, the photos, the blanket next to her that she and Michael had sat under a few days ago, finally sharing a moment that felt almost normal. She sighs the sentiment that sat on her tongue from the moment she met Sidney, “what the fuck am I doing?” Explaining, she rationalizes. She re-reads the original message she sent, feels again a small pang of guilt. It didn’t read like a person who only wanted to explain and walk away. But maybe she could, she thought. Maybe she could. 

She writes back the only thing she can. “I would understand if you didn’t.” 

She sees the dots pop up and curses technology when they disappear. 7 days, she reminds herself. It’s been 7 days since she originally sent the message. It could be another 7,14, a year. She could read the message and just think to herself “then good, I’m not going to.” Swipe the message into oblivion, delete her info. It could really be over now. But of course, it isn’t. The number pops up and Jean feels relief flood through her, uncertain that she could’ve stood that feeling of never knowing.

“On my terms then.”

“Of course.”

“I want you to explain in person.”

“I can do that.” 

Jean put the phone face down on her knee, needing a moment before reading any response from Sidney. She was wading through dangerous waters to an even deeper end where she could lose the life boat that Michael had thrown her. She was actively moving toward destruction and she knew it. She ran a hand over her tired face. It had always been like this, since she was young. She lived at this constant baseline of normalcy, an average life, an average woman. When faced with options there was usually two choices, the safe and the slightly insane. Most people in her shoes, when faced with a choice went with safe. Since she was young, Jean had always known the safe choice, recognized it, almost touched it but was easily pulled and persuaded into insanity. 

This seemed to be no exception.

She turned the phone over. A message waited, 4 minutes old.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”


End file.
